


On The Fated Path

by KytCordell



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2018-11-28 15:51:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11421213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KytCordell/pseuds/KytCordell
Summary: After destroying the White Frost, Ciri sets off with Geralt on the Witcher's path. However, as new dangers arise on the continent, they find themselves reluctantly allied with Emperor Emhyr var Emreis. Ciri begins to have second thoughts about turning away from her father and the throne. Meanwhile, Geralt and Emhyr find themselves in a rather unexpected, yet not entirely unpleasant predicament.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The ending where Ciri becomes a witcheress always seemed rather poorly thought out. I have a hard time believing that no one is going to take note of the fact Geralt of Rivia is travelling with a ashen haired girl who just so happens to look exactly like the daughter the emperor is looking for. Moreover, once Emhyr caught wind of the news, I don't imagine he would just sit back and twiddle this thumbs about the fact his heir is still alive.

Geralt felt rather satisfied with himself, if not slightly uneasy, as he fed the emperor the carefully crafted tale of how his daughter had perished in the battle against the White Frost. He began the conversation with a hardened disposition, intending to lambast Emhyr for his shortcomings.  It wasn’t often that the emperor of half the world essentially asked you to verbally punch him square in the face.  However, when Emhyr finally inquired whether Ciri had wished to convey anything, Geralt found himself taken aback by the barely disguised sorrow etched in both his voice and the hard lines of his face. Var Emreis was not a man who showed any sign of weakness or feeling underneath the royal mantle of black and gold.

“She regretted not getting a chance to say goodbye.” Geralt replied, after a moment’s pause.

“Did she tell you this, really?” Emhyr pressed further.

“Didn’t have to. She wanted to make peace, I know that.” Geralt insisted, trying to sound sincere. It was true enough.

Geralt strode from the royal office without a second glance back. However confident his demeanor or steadfast his stride, he couldn’t help the the fact his pulse quickened beneath Emhyr’s displeasure. He rounded the corner and sighed in relief—out of sight, out of mind, hopefully. A minute longer and the emperor’s gaze would have burned a new set of scars into his back.

Geralt’s mood lightened the moment he spotted Ciri at a tavern in White Orchard, her cloak pulled low over her eyes. She perked up as he sat down beside her, and eagerly asked whether the deed was done. Geralt promised her that he had delivered the lines, but honestly could not say whether Emhyr had taken them to heart.  At that point, part of him wanted to—felt almost obligated to—ask Ciri just once more if she was certain of her decision. However, he quickly put the thought out of mind as she began enthusiastically detailing a wyvern contract she had found. This was clearly the right decision. Ciri would make a brilliant witcher and Emhyr could go fuck himself.

As Ciri gushed over the new sword he had brought for her, Geralt talked himself into believing that var Emreis had believed his story. It was the only reasonable outcome. If the emperor had even an ounce of doubt regarding his truthfulness, Geralt figured he would have already been dangling from the gallows.

The next morning, they made their way northwards to a nearby village where a wyvern had apparently been picking off the herder’s stock over the last few weeks. Some of the local folk had attempted to find the creature’s nest in the caverns just to the east. The locals ended up posting the contract when the band of hunters didn’t return. Ciri rode slightly ahead, excitement in her voice as she mused on the battles to come. Geralt felt a sense of pride as he sped up to ride alongside the young woman he had once trained back at Kaer Morhen.

Though, along the way, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Emhyr was still somehow watching them, dark eyes following their every step. He couldn’t stop himself from looking back to check if they were being followed, perhaps by one of the many spies that comprised the emperor’s vast intelligence network that made him seem omniscient. The ride was quiet and solitary, only the occasional merchant or radish farmer crossing their path. Yet Geralt could have sworn that the scent of the great var Emreis was still ever so subtly present. He tried to ignore it, but found the lingering traces of the emperor to be incredibly distracting.

It was nearly dusk when the misty village came into their sights. Geralt insisted that they stop at the inn for the night. Ciri put her horse in his path a few times, complaining that there was enough daylight left to get the job done. He chuckled at her persistence, fondly remembering the itch of wanting to slash at something with a new sword.

“Come on, Geralt. I remember you used to tell stories of how you’d bag three contracts in a single evening.” Ciri teased as they hitched their horses by the inn.

“Yeah, ghoul contracts—good luck trying to hunt those by day. Besides, that was years ago.”

“Excuses.” Ciri turned to him with wide eyes and a broad frown. “Maybe you’re just getting too _old_ for this.” Ciri teased.

“Tch, as if. I’ve got a few years left in me yet.” Geralt shot back.

“You’ll turn into grandpa Vesimir before you know it.”

With a bright laugh, Ciri led the way into the tavern. She went to chat with the stout man behind the desk while Geralt studied some notices that were posted on a corkboard.

The innkeeper had a round face and such drooping features you couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed. For a moment, Ciri thought the man might have been asleep.

“Hello there, miss.” His voice, loud and lively in a way that didn’t fit his appearance, cut clear through the noise of the tavern.

“Hello. Have you any rooms?” They’d have to camp out if there weren’t any available, but then she might be able to talk Geralt into getting an early start on the hunt.

The innkeeper’s eyes drifted over her face—from her eyes to her scar—then quickly down to her breasts. He leaned forward a bit and rested his elbows on the desk. “You’re a lucky lass, you. I’ve got one room left.”

“Thanks, how much?”

“Hundred orens for the night.”

Ciri raised a brow. “What? That’s a bit much.”

He shrugged and gestured towards Geralt who was occasionally glancing over his shoulder at them. “So, you staying in town with your...er” He trailed off at first.  Then, after another look between the two, tacked on “…father?”

Ciri smiled. “Yes. You could say that.”

Having grown impatient, Geralt strode over and interrupted the conversation. “So, do we have a room or what?”

The innkeeper immediately stumbled back as he stared at Geralt’s golden, slitted eyes. “Y-you’re a witcher” He stammered.

“Witchers, actually.” Ciri corrected. This time she was the one to lean forward. Twirling a lock of her ashen hair, “We’re here to deal with the stubborn wyvern that’s been tormenting the shepherds.”

His tiny eyes again drifted over Ciri’s breasts, before then fearfully darting to meet Geralt’s stony, unamused glare. “A witcher lass, never heard of that before.” He gave an awkward laugh and rubbed the back of his head.

“First time for everything.” Ciri replied.

“Well, miss witcher, that will be 60 orens then. Second room on the right.” The innkeeper hastily handed over the room key after taking their coin, then moved down the bar where he began to move some bottles around, keeping his head firmly turned away.

The room was very sparsely furnished, with only a small single-cot. Geralt looked around, not especially impressed given how much the innkeep was charging. Still, even having a roof over their heads was a luxury. More often than not, Geralt found himself camped out beneath a tree or atop a bale of hay.

He left the bed to Ciri and stretched out his bedroll on the stone floor. It was bit dusty but not altogether uncomfortable. There weren’t any bugs or rats skittering about, which was really all one could ask for. Geralt fell asleep, basking in a sense of warmth and comfort in spite of being so close to the chilly ground. He had overheard the conversation between Ciri and the innkeep. Having been mistaken as Ciri’s father, even for a moment, brought him much more joy than he could ever express aloud.

Geralt awoke the next morning to a woolen blanket draped over him. He smiled to himself as he rolled onto his side. Ciri was still curled up on the cot, sound asleep. Judging by the bluish hue of the light filtering through the windows, Geralt figured it was still early enough in the dawn that they could afford to laze about for a while longer. He eventually got to his feet and decided to prepare his gear for the upcoming hunt. Though, he took a moment to appreciate the way Ciri looked, serene and carefree as she slumbered. Geralt brushed a strand of pale hair from her face before getting to work.

Vesimir’s lessons had taken solid root in his pupils. Even now, his voice echoed through Geralt’s mind as he got to work maintaining his blades. He sharpened them with the finest care, first the steel, then the silver. Though, when he reached into his satchel to retrieve the tin of oil, his senses were hit by a waft that smelled distinctively of _Emhyr var Emreis_. The scent struck the witcher like a tidal wave and immediately the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. He knew in reality it was but a faint trace of a smell and  imperceptible to a normal human, but it was more than enough to fluster Geralt. He hastily emptied his entire bag onto the floor in search for the source.

And there he found it: A letter neatly tucked at the bottom of his bag. It bore the imperial seal and reeked of the emperor. Geralt’s lips formed a sneer as he broke the wax emblem. The letter read:

 

_Witcher,_

 

_Though I am certain you made a valiant effort in crafting an outlandish story regarding Cirilla’s disappearance, you should know that you are a terrible liar. I should also make it clear, I did not hang you for my daughter’s sake, for she bears a fondness for you that I do not wish to offend. Do not mistake it for any degree of mercy for your sake._

_I am aware that Cirilla has yet to see the importance of her role in the kingdom and I have no desire to bind her to the throne by force. I trust that she is currently safely by your side.  In spite of all your other defects, I trust in your capabilities as a warrior and protector. Thus, I leave my sole heir in your charge until further notice. Do not disappoint me._

_Enjoy your wyvern hunt,_

_Emhyr var Emreis_

Geralt stared at the letter with gritted teeth. He felt the sinking sensation of realizing one had unknowingly swam into drowner infested waters. Every part of the letter was utterly infuriating. Until further notice? As though Ciri was eventually going to simply bend to his will? Geralt seethed. The arrogance and nerve of the man. He figured he should have expected no less from a man who felt entitled to simply conquer half the civilized world. A pretentious, tyrannical prick. Geralt angrily crumpled up the letter, mashing it between his fists with such force that it was compressed into a small paper grape.

It took a moment of sulking before Geralt came to a realization that only infuriated him more: the timing of the letter. Emhyr must have known about their plans all along. He had written and planted the letter long before Geralt actually pitched his story. It was all a part of Emhyr’s game and he was ten steps ahead Geralt. The turn of events had entirely ruined the witcher’s day before it had even started. In that moment, Geralt felt less like a witcher and more like a mouse frantically running through a maze—a maze designed by a narcissistic, power hungry, selfish asshole.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's Chapter 2. Gonna try and finish writing this story so my beta can edit. There's a lot more coming.

Geralt incinerated the damned letter with a small blast of _igni_ which sent Ciri jolting upright, her witcher instincts compelling her hand towards her sword. “What the hell was that?” She exclaimed, eyes still half-lidded.

“Eh? Nothing. Just making sure everything is ready to go.” Geralt grumbled.

“I could have sworn…well, never mind. Let’s get going.” Ciri rubbed her eyes and joined in prepping their weapons.

The local shepherds had not taken their animals to pasture in the last few days. The sound of weary, restless bleating could be heard as Ciri and Geralt rode up to the nearest barn. Other than the low complaints of hungry goats, the fields between the barns were eerily silent. Geralt strode right up to the door of one and banged on it several times. No one answered and so he began walking away.

After a bit, a stable boy cracked the door open ever so slightly, “What ye want?” He asked in a hushed tone.

“We’re here to help you kill the wyvern.” Ciri explained, trying to peer into the barn.

“You a witcher?”

“You’ve got that right.”

“Sure don’t look like one.”

Geralt suddenly pushed his way into the barn, knocking the stable boy backwards. “Do you want our help or not?”

The stable boy gazed up at Geralt with an expression of fear mixed with disdain. Nothing he wasn’t used to. “Y-yeah. I was just checking in on the goats. They ain’t doing so well—haven’t been able to take ‘em out in days, and we’re starting to run low on hay.”

Once the freckled stable boy had finished gawking at Geralt, they convinced him to lead a small pack of his goats out toward where they would normally be set to pasture. He didn’t seem too thrilled to be using his flock as live bait, even when Geralt explained it was the fastest way to get the job done. He was quick to cooperate, though, Ciri told him how his help would be appreciated . In spite of the death glares that Geralt would occasionally direct his way, the boy, Jobrunn, chatted animatedly with Ciri as they settled out on a grassy hill.

Ciri and Geralt laid out traps a small distance away from where the goats were grazing. Jobrunn stood anxiously by his flock, looking up into the sky with squinted eyes.

“You sure this is a good idea?”

“You can leave if you think you’re going to wet yourself.” Geralt snarled. Ciri elbowed him.

“What he means to say is, it might be safer if you head back down. I promise your flock will be safe with us.”

“Uh…well…” The stable boy hesitated at first, then replied as gallantly as he could. “I couldn’t just go and leave you up here all alone, miss.” Ciri rolled her eyes.

“Very well. Stay if you’d like.”

Geralt downed a draft of golden oriole in case a wyvern actually showed up. He had brewed it while still in Vizima. It always wise to keep on hand, as it would cure most venoms. He and Ciri sat on the hill and waited. The famished animals gnawed away at patches of thistle until suddenly, onyx wings shot up into the sky from just beyond the nearest hillcrest. A loud screech pierced the air as a deformed draconid creature flapped toward the goats. The frenzied livestock all dashed in different directions 

“Well I’ll be. It is a wyvern. At least it’s not a royal one. Why did we pick this contract, again?” Geralt remarked as he readied his crossbow.

“The contract said it was a royal wyvern, and I’ve never seen one up close.” Ciri admitted as she drew her sword.

“Well, sorry to disappoint you, but that’s definitely not a royal wyvern. Thank god.” Geralt chuckled as he let loose the first bolt. The metal bit struck the shrieking monstrosity in the face but it barely flinched. Geralt would have opted for something stronger, like grapeshot, but Ciri had promised to keep the boy’s flock safe and he’d never hear the end of it if he killed one of the goats by accident. The wyvern circled back around and suddenly dived toward Ciri with his claws extended, but she teleported away right before it struck. Jobrunn’s eyes bugged out of his eyes as Ciri vanished into thin air.

The wyvern landed and turned about, disoriented by its missing prey. Geralt took the chance to cast Yrden beneath it, effectively grounding it. The creature turned sharply and rushed at Geralt with its jaws open. He parried the creature’s bite with one swing, then immediately rolled to dodge its stinger. Ciri leapt from behind and hacked the wyvern’s tail off in a swift, brutal strike. The monster screamed and whipped around to lunge at her, but again, she vanished into nothing. She reappeared behind the beast and jammed her sword into its back before it could figure out what had happened.

Blood spurted from the wound and the beast thrashed until it threw Ciri from its back. She struggled back onto her feet with a grunt. The wyvern flew into an enraged frenzy and dove for her, its talons outstretched.  Geralt blocked the attack before it could get near Ciri, giving her enough time to teleport away again. He inflicted several deep wounds to the wyvern’s legs and chest. Angry and badly wounded, it threw itself at Geralt with a desperate barrage of wild, frenzied swipes. He managed to dodge out of the way. Before he could counterattack, Ciri stepped out from a portal a few feet above the creature and drove her sword down into the back of its neck—striking the killing blow.

She rolled off and watched intently as the wyvern stumbled about for a moment, torrents of dark blood spewing from its wound. Ciri raised her bloody sword into the air and cheered when it finally collapsed to the ground. Geralt threw his arm around her shoulders and laughed with her.

The stable boy sat in awe for a while before realizing that all his goats had run off.

Geralt and Ciri played a game of rock paper scissors to decide who would have to strip the carcass. Ciri won. Geralt demanded the best two of three. Ciri won again. The witcheress stood over the body with a smirk as Geralt gutted and beheaded it. Unfortunately, although female, the wyvern’s corpse contained no eggs. They tied the head to Roach’s saddle before riding back for the village.

As stated on the notice board, the contract paid a generous bit of coin. Geralt was rather surprised that the town could actually afford the stated amount. More often than not, the peasants posted overstated rewards in hopes that someone would come to their aid. After collecting their gold, they rode toward the nearest town with a tavern. Keeping with tradition, Geralt was determined to find a lively spot and start drinking away his half.

  

The sun was high in the sky by the time they reached the next town, one large enough to have a central square and multiple pubs. On the way, Geralt had mulled over whether he should inform Ciri that Emhyr was onto them. It actually seemed inevitable, so it was more a matter of deciding _how_ to tell her. Geralt didn’t want the knowledge weighing on her. It was Ciri’s choice to take the witcher’s path instead of the throne. He insisted to himself that he was protecting Ciri’s freedom, her right to choose. However, there was also a part of him that feared her changing her mind. What if she decided to go back? He tried to shake the thought from his mind, but it stuck like a persistent shard of glass stuck he couldn’t dig out. Perhaps a stiff lager would clear his head.

Ciri could generally hold her own when it came to ale, but she was no match for Geralt’s veteran alcoholism. Years of practice on top of mutagens meant that even the average witcher had to drink three times as much as a normal man to obtain the same outcome. It was Geralt’s idea to pay for rooms ahead of time, because he had learned the hard way just how difficult it was to haggle when you were too shitfaced to tell an oren from a crown.

The barkeep and all the tavern’s patrons regarded them with wary looks the second they entered. Though, even being a witcher didn’t disqualify you from getting drunk, as long as you had coin. Geralt had traveled through this particular tavern before, and if he recalled correctly, they served some rather unusual spirits. He couldn’t exactly remember what they were called. In fact, he couldn’t remember much at all from the last time he was there. Geralt ended up just ordering one of every drink that sounded interesting or potentially toxic. Ciri on the other hand focused on ordering food—rye bread and herb roasted chicken—something to pad the liquor.

Most of the tavern’s patrons didn’t seem keen on engaging either of witchers. A few men turned their backs and shifted their chairs away. Even the barmaid who served their food couldn’t look Geralt in the eye. She gave a quick, anxious bow and scurried off before Ciri could thank her. Left in only one another’s company, they engaged in some father-daughter bonding over a game of Gwent.

“So, are we playing for coin?” Ciri asked mirthfully, sipping on a cup of Temerian dry as she ran a finger over her cards.

“Only if you want to lose all your hard earned contract money.” Geralt replied with a smug grin.

“Oh, you’re on. What’re the stakes?” Ciri assertively propped her forearm on the table.

Geralt wagered a boastful amount. He scraped a win the first round by a mere two points playing a Scoia’tael deck against Ciri’s Skellige. The second round also went to him, by three points this time. Ciri tapped her fingers on the table in an unamused fashion as Geralt gloated, squaring his shoulders in an exaggerated manner and puffing his chest out. Ciri had mostly run out of cards by the last round of the first game, so Geralt won it by a landslide.

Ciri changed tactics after losing the second game as well, although not by as large a margin. She reorganized her cards, playing the second game with a Nilfgaardian reveal deck. She took the first round and in spite of an unlucky draw which lost her round two, Ciri won back her gold after taking the last round.

“What were you saying about losing all my coin?” Voice merry and sing-song as she relished her victory.

“Heh, the night’s still young.” Geralt sulked a bit, rearranging his cards. 

The fourth game went to Ciri who secured two rounds in a row. Both her luck and skill seemed to improve as she familiarized herself with the deck. The hour passed quickly as she won hand after hand. After switching out the leader and bronze cards a few times, she had gotten a solid feel for things. Geralt blamed his string of losses on the motley assortment of empty tankards, glasses, and cups that lined their table. In response, Ciri pointed out that she had been winning long before he was actually drunk. Moreover, that even if the wine was to blame, self-restraint should be considered a Gwent skill in and of itself.

The evening dragged on, and eventually the other folk loitering about the tavern grew accustomed to the witchers’ presence. A small audience gathered to watch their break-neck games of Gwent. Even halfway to wasted, Geralt still played a deft hand. But it wasn’t enough to stand against whatever god-ordained synergy Ciri had found in her Nilfgaard deck. By the end, Geralt was starting to have trouble keeping track of his points, and Ciri didn’t have the heart to take further advantage. However, she had been neatly keeping track of how much gold he owed on a napkin and had every intention of collecting come morning. It’d be for his own good, Melitele knew she’d take better care of it.

“And I believe that’s another win for me—not that you’re even counting.” Ciri played her last card in a pointed fashion. 

“Hm-huh, nuh, what?” Geralt slowly lifted his head off the table. Indents from the wood lined his forehead.

‘Emhyr var Emreis, Emperor of Nilfgaard’ stared up at him from a card on the table. Geralt frowned.

“What? Again? D…amn…at this rate I’m going end up in debtor’s prison…” He narrowed his golden eyes and tried to gather himself. His brain scrambled to try and do basic addition, but only managed to trigger the start of a headache, so he quickly gave up.

“Geralt, maybe we should call it a night?” Ciri shook her head with a gentle smile.

“Yeah...pro…bly a good idea.” He moved to collect his cards and accidentally swept a few off the table. Some of Ciri’s collection falling along side his own.

“S-sorry…” It took a few tries before he was able to gather up all of his cards and put them away. He glanced at the score and balked, “Shit…how much I owe you?”

“Quiiite a bit.”

“Fuck.”

“You’ll live.” Ciri snatched up their tab and realized that Geralt would be a few orens short of paying for all their drinks if she subtracted her winnings from his pool. To be fair, she had downed quite a few samplings of wine. Ciri mercifully closed out the tab on his behalf and helped him to their room. 

Geralt fell face first into the nearest bed as soon as he stumbled through the door. He patted himself on the back for getting a room beforehand. Always important to plan accordingly. Ciri propped herself onto the bed across from Geralt and smoothed out the sheets. This room was much more finely furnished than the one in the previous village. Ah, the luxuries of civilization.

“Hvaroo fo gfud wiffat veck?” Geralt asked, facedown into his pillow.

“What?”

Geralt struggled to unbury his face from the pillow, “How are you so good with that deck?”

Ciri leaned forward thoughtfully, wrapping her arms around her knees. “Not sure, never tried it before, to be honest. As you know, I usually play either monster or Skellige. I didn’t even realize I had all the cards for a solid Nilfgaard deck. But like Vesimir always says, ‘if a tactic isn’t working, you best figure it out sooner than later.’” 

Geralt grunted in reply. Eyes shut, he could feel sleep tugging at him.

An urgent knock sounded from their door, which yanked Geralt out of his dozing. Ciri went to answer it. She was met by the same maid who had served them food earlier.

“Excuse me, miss. I think this might be yours? Or maybe your friend’s?” The bar maid asked, holding up a Gwent card. The girl seemed much more at ease around Ciri now than she was at the beginning of the night.

“Oh! Yes, thank you. Goodness, my companion must have knocked it to the ground.” Ciri rolled her eyes as she took the card in her hand.

“Of course. Anything I can do to be of service.” The sound of glass breaking could be heard in the distance. The maid gave a quick bow and hurried back downstairs. Ciri shut the door and went back to her cot. 

“Whawazzat?” Geralt mumbled, rolling over to face her.

“ _You_ almost lost me one of my leader cards.” Ciri rebuked, waving it in the air.

“Tha fuck? What is with ‘im?” His slitted pupils widened, allowing Geralt to discern the Emhyr card even through the darkness and insobriety. “I swear he’s gonna haff’me hanged…or something…probly ‘orse…” His jaw widened in a great yawn, mangling his words.

“Oh come now, don’t get so dramatic. It’s just a game of Gwent. You were going to waste all your coin anyway. Besides, Emhyr thinks I’m dead, so—”

“’e fucking knows…’e knooooows, goddammit. Hrmnaa zee no…” Geralt mumbled, no longer lucid.

“Knows what?”

“Hmmfzz gunna hanged. ” Was all he could manage to slur before passing out.

“Wait, what?” Ciri asked, narrowing her eyes. But the only response she got was the sound of light snoring.

Ciri was restless for the remainder of the night. She managed to sleep a few hours, but woke early in the morning. Geralt on the other hand remained soundly unconscious until almost noon—since that was when Ciri got tired of waiting for answers.  

Geralt was laying on his stomach, head buried in his arms. His white hair fell in a mess across his shoulders. “Geralt! Geralt, wake up. I think we need to talk.” Ciri paced about the room with her arms folded. “Geralt!” She shook him but he didn’t stir. Ciri clambered onto his bed and forcefully sat all her weight down on his back, just like she had done as a child.

“Oomph!” Geralt grunted into the pillow. 

“We need to talk.” Ciri demanded.

He tried to roll Ciri off his back but found himself too tired to do anything at all. His head was pounding and the sun oppressively bright. “What now?” He asked miserably. 

“You said some strange things last night—about Emhyr.”

“Like what?” He was still groggy and frankly couldn’t remember very much of the night before. He knew this tavern had good drinks. 

“Something about him having you hanged and that he ‘knows.’ What was that all about?”

Vague, distorted memories started coming back to him and he immediately stiffened with apprehension. “Uh…Nothing. Was probably just drunk.” 

Ciri wasn’t convinced. “You’ve been acting rather strangely.” She used Geralt like a spring board as she hopped to her feet.

“Ugh! You’re getting way too old for that.” Geralt grumbled. With a great amount of effort, he tried to sit up, shielding his eyes from the light. Ciri had cruelly thrown the shutters wide open.

The aftereffects of the alcohol was wreaking havoc on his senses. The room was spinning and Geralt felt as though his skull would crack in half. “Uhn…fuck. Can you get me some—” Before he could finish asking, Ciri was already holding a mug of water out at him.

“Oh…thanks.” He sighed in a rather sheepish manner. After few long gulps of water, he started to feel less like a corpse. The headache didn’t quite abate, but it no longer felt as though a team of rock trolls were rampaging through his skull.

“You owe me 800 orens.” Ciri stated with a deadpan expression.

“What? No way…?” Geralt retorted in genuine disbelief. He couldn’t have lost _that_ many games.

“Mhmm. The barkeep can testify to that, if you’d like.” Ciri said, crossing her arms. 

“Ciri, that’s probably more coin than I _have_ right now…”

“Actually, you’re right. I counted. So, unless you want to go until the next contract without a single drink, perhaps you’ll tell me what you were talking about last night?”

“Hhgnn…what exactly did I even say?” Geralt asked, massaging his temples.

Ciri pulled her Emhyr leader card from her bag and held it up between two fingers. “I almost lost this card yesterday, and when I mentioned it, you said that Emhyr would hang you. I thought the notion absurd. Why would he hang you? He already let you leave, besides, he believes I’m dead.”

“Yeah…”

“And you said that _he knows_.” Ciri said emphatically. “What _exactly_ does he know?”

Geralt paused a long moment before finally replying, “Nothing, like I said, was probably just drunk and being paranoid.” He could tell Ciri didn’t believe him before he even finished speaking.

“Geralt…I’m not a child anymore. What are you hiding from me? I have a right to know.”

Ciri’s expression was heartbreaking. Geralt looked away and rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands. “Emhyr knows that you’re alive.”

“What?!” Ciri exclaimed, her fists clenched.

“Yeah.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?! You _lied_ to me?” Ciri shook her head, the hint of tears starting to gather in her eyes.

Geralt immediately stood and placed his hands on her shoulders, “No—it’s not like that. I didn’t know either—not at first.”

Ciri shrugged him off. “Then explain.”

Geralt sighed deeply. “Look, I thought he bought the story. He kicked me out and said he never wanted to see me again—and trust me, I was glad for it. But the next morning, I found a letter in the bottom of my bag. I don’t know how he managed it, but he knew about our plan.”

“Wait, what letter?” Ciri threw her hands up, exasperated.

“Uh…I kind of burned it.”

“Geralt!”

“I’m sorry. I panicked, okay? I didn’t know how to tell you. Hell, I didn’t even know what to make of it. I was afraid it would hurt you. After all this, I just…didn’t want you having to deal with more bullshit. I was going to tell you. I just couldn’t figure out how.” The witcher looked defeated as he confessed. He slowly reached out and tried offering Ciri a hug. She glared at him, jaw tight and eyes burning. But after a moment, she leaned in buried her face against Geralt’s shoulder.

“Always trying to protect me, huh?” She said softly.

“Yeah.” 

“I’m not a little girl anymore.” 

“I know. Still getting used to it, even if you are the lady of space and time.”

“I should have figured that he would find out, sooner or later.” Ciri said after a while.

“Apparently sooner.” Geralt felt rather foolish for not seeing this coming.

Ciri took a step back, “What else did the letter say? How come he hasn’t come after us if he knows you lied?” 

“He said that he didn’t want to force you to do anything.”

“What…Really? He said that? Do you believe he meant it?” Ciri’s eyes suddenly lit up, a mixture of hope and surprise filling them.

Geralt held his breath, not quite knowing what to say. He was afraid to give the wrong answer and had no idea what the right answer would be. Emhyr was not to be trusted. Yet, it was clear that Ciri wanted very much to trust him.

“I’m not sure. But he knows we’re travelling together and he let us go.”

Ciri gave a short, incredulous laugh, eyes still gleaming. “To think that Emhyr var Emreis would let his only heir run away into the wild simply because it makes her happy?”

“We can only hope so.” Geralt said solemnly.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I apologize for the long wait. Chapter 4 is going to be up in the next few days. I've been busy studying for the bar. I just took it this last week so hopefully I'll get lots more writing posted. I have a lot to do before work starts up.
> 
> Thank you to Peterpancomplex for the edits.
> 
> I appreciate everyone who is following the story! ^.^

Everything felt a bit lighter after that talk. Geralt and Ciri spent the next few days in the same town. From morning to late afternoon, the square boasted a bountiful market of food, furs, and other goods. Their armor and gear was in good condition, having been recently serviced by the smith back in Vizima. So, they had a bit of room to indulge. However, Ciri did end up collecting her Gwent winnings from Geralt, if only to stop him from blowing it all. Rather than ale and gambling, Ciri insisted on more practical purchases. In particular, she stocked up on her favorite astringent potion that did wonders in removing all sorts of stains from clothing, whether it be blood, bile, or god knows what else.

Toward the end of the week, they had started looking through the local notice boards for new contracts. There were the usual silly requests, along with a few promising monster contracts. The notices were always a source of amusement. Geralt had learned long ago that innocently worded requests often led to petty and dubious tasks. An unusually well-paying delivery contract could end with one smuggling fisstech through the sewer. Never again, Geralt swore to himself.

He and Ciri distracted themselves with the postings, reading between the lines. However, they fell silent when they reached the central board. There was a witcher contract posted smack in the middle of it. It was penned on expensive, cream parchment. It had been drafted and posted very recently, the ink still smelled fresh.

It bore the imperial seal.

They wanted to pretend they hadn’t seen it, but they knew it was always better to know. Without a word, Geralt eventually unpinned it from the sheet of cork and handed it to Ciri. They shared a look before Ciri leaned against Geralt and read the contract.

  

_I_ _mprovements in Velen_

_The Imperial Majesty summons any sufficiently skilled witchers to perform a long-term contract. Improvements are currently being undertaken in Velen and the surrounding areas, and assistance is required to identify and exterminate any hostile creatures that may impede construction._

_The length of the contract will span such time as needed to ensure the safety of the Emperor’s men and the completion of said improvements._ _The reward for the contract will depend on the quality of performance and the time spent._

_  
All interested parties will report to the Royal Court in Vizima._

Ciri ran her hand along the back of her neck. A million thoughts skittered across her mind. ‘What was her father’s plan? What improvements? Why Velen? The place was a marshy wasteland. Was this a trap? Could Emhyr be trusted?’ Trying to buy time, Ciri read the message over and over with forced attentiveness.

“So, what do you think?” Geralt finally asked, putting his arm around her shoulder. 

“I say we give it a shot.” She said after some consideration.

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.” Ciri nodded with confidence. “My father already knows I’m alive. Probably even knew we were going to be here in Verhlach.”

“Or maybe he just posted the same notice in every town.” Geralt suggested, uneasy at the thought of Emhyr knowing all their movements.

“Well, the point is, he knew we would see it. If he didn’t try and stop me before, I don’t imagine he’s going to do so now. I think we ought to hear him out.”

“All right.”

The ride back to Vizima was uneventful. Neither Ciri nor Geralt spoke much. Apprehension hung over them like a thick cloud. Every bit of banter felt flat; every game of Gwent fizzled before they even finished tallying the points. Geralt was beginning to think that perhaps they should have sorted this out much earlier. At this point, the emperor’s actions were so confounding that Geralt had given up trying to understand him, let alone outmaneuver him.

They were received at the royal court by Emhyr’s chamberlain, Mererid. As usual, the sour-faced man regarded Geralt with glances of disdain, turning his nose up as one would when presented with spoiled meat or overripe fruit. However, upon seeing Ciri, his eyes widened so much they looked as though they would fall from their sockets.

Mererid immediately arranged a private audience before the emperor. Geralt was rather relieved to be spared the demeaning grooming ritual that the chamberlain normally forced him through before allowing him to see Emhyr. It wouldn’t have been all that bad, getting a bath and a free shave, but it wasn’t worth Mererid’s ceaseless barrage of nasally insults. On top of that, Geralt couldn’t stand being stuffed into some silly Nilfgaardian ball costume, all for the sake of ‘propriety.’ He also preferred not to be reminded that the emperor apparently kept an entire wardrobe of various styles of attire in his exact measurements. He had a broader stature than most southerners, and however ridiculous the outfits were, they always fit perfectly.

Emhyr received them in the royal gardens. Though he sat on a simple marble bench, his commanding presence made it seem as grand as any throne. Mererid began to announce Geralt and Ciri’s arrival, but Emhyr cut the chamberlain off midway and dismissed him and all the other servants with a wave of the hand. Even the guards were sent to the far side of the courtyard.

Ciri met Emhyr’s gaze as with as much confidence as she could gather. “Your majesty…” She began, bowing her head slightly. There wasn’t really a right way to start the conversation. Ciri tried to diffuse the tension by going straight to business. “We are…here to accept the contract regarding—”

Emhyr stood and took a tentative step towards his daughter, as though she were but an apparition that would vanish at any moment. “Ciri...” He spoke in a raw, almost pained whisper, every trace of his rigid control gone.

“Father…?” Ciri stared back with wide eyes.

A long pause passed between them. Emhyr was momentarily at a loss for words. Eventually, he spoke, “I…am pleased to see that you are well. You’ve grown into a remarkable young woman. Truly remarkable.” The emperor very slowly reached a hand out and rested it on Ciri’s shoulder. Ciri managed a smile.

Geralt stood behind Ciri with his arms crossed. A slight frown tugging at the corners of his mouth in spite of his best efforts to keep a neutral expression. Sure, the emperor seemed genuinely happy to see his daughter. But after the last encounter, Geralt had learned that Emhyr was not only an expert at hiding emotions, but also faking them. Something just didn’t sit right with the seemingly heartfelt reunion.

Emhyr invited them to stay a few days at the palace in Vizima. Geralt countered by suggesting they leave immediately. But the emperor held firm. He explained that if they wished to take the contract, they would begin work by escorting the next caravan of supply wagons to Velen. Geralt figured that var Emreis probably just wanted more time to goad Ciri into taking the throne.

However, Emhyr voiced not a single word about succession throughout their entire stay. Instead, he let Ciri do most of the talking when they did find time to converse. Although tentative at first, she quickly warmed to Emhyr’s company. The emperor listened with rapt attention as his daughter recounted the perils and triumphs she had faced over the years.

Although she found politics to be rather tiring, Ciri discovered they were somewhat more palatable when discussed within context of strategy. Once Emhyr showed her the imperial battle diorama, she quickly figured that understanding political motivations wasn’t too different from knowing which bait to use when luring out a wyvern. Emhyr was only too happy to explain the history of his battles and the current state of the war. When not attending to his duties, the emperor invited Ciri’s tactical opinions as they pushed pieces around a map of the world. 

At first, Geralt couldn’t wait to be away from the palace. He hated being at court, surrounded by pompous nobles who wore far too much perfume. The stench of a gryphon carcass was hard to stomach, but the sickly-sweet odor of the highborn kind made him ill in a different way. All the sneers and thinly veiled jabs always left Geralt itching to move on from where he wasn’t wanted. It was as though someone took the ignorance and discrimination of simple peasants and infused it with lordly pretense. At least the villagers usually needed him.

Though, this most recent visit was a little better than usual. He received fewer sideways glances this time around. Also, Emhyr’s generosity for Ciri branched out far enough to grace Geralt with days of heated baths, good food, and wine. The guards allowed Geralt unhindered access to all the facilities, and by Melitele, the bathhouse was indeed splendid. He whiled away many hours there. He had ample free time, seeing as how Ciri was so busy catching up with her father. They had sparred once early in morning on the second day of their stay. Other than that, Emhyr occupied most of her attention.

But no matter. Ciri was happy and Emhyr was keeping his talons sheathed. So Geralt told himself, again and again, that there was nothing to complain about. A couple more days of lounging in the glorious, almost scalding, baths and then they’d be back on the path. By the third day of their stay, he had mostly convinced himself that everything was just fine.

That was, until Emhyr sunk into the water across from him.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo. Here's chapter 4! This one's a bit longer than the last, to make up for the cliffhanger. Thanks again to my beta PeterPanComplex.

Geralt was lightly dozing with his head against the smooth edge of the pool when he caught Emhyr’s scent. While previously a cause for alarm, their extended stay at the palace had accustomed him to the smell. He even found it rather pleasant, especially compared to the everyone else at court. The emperor didn’t douse himself in pungent Nilfgaardian aromas. He smelled rather like charred wood, sealing wax, and something else Geralt couldn’t quite describe. It was just distinctively Emhyr. The witcher let it wash over him, basking comfortably until it was too late.

“What the—?” Geralt’s head jerked up as he heard the splash of Emhyr settling into the water.

“Good evening.” 

Geralt’s shoulders visibly tensed. “What are you doing here?”

“Witcher, these are my baths. I do not recall granting you exclusive access.” Emhyr replied, tone calm and emotionless.

“Er…right, you got me there.” Geralt began to stand, reaching for where his clothes should have been.

“Sit.”

“What, is that an order?” Geralt retorted.

“A request.” He stood still, ensnared by Emhyr’s steady gaze.

“Fine, I’ll play along.” Geralt slowly sank back into the water and rested his arms on his knees. “To what do I owe the company?”

“I wished to speak with you.” 

“Why didn’t you just summon me like your normally do?” Geralt searched his mind, trying to remember where he had left his clothes. He could have sworn he had placed them right there.

“If I were to summon you, the exchange would inevitably feel like business.”

“And what exactly is the feel we’re going for here?” Geralt scoffed, averting his eyes. While hardly shy, he felt uncomfortable being exposed before Emhyr, vulnerable. The emperor’s gaze had a sharp yet hollow quality that made him feel as though all his thoughts were being laid bare.

“I was hoping for a friendly discussion, perhaps even a trusting one.”

“Trusting doesn’t really seem your style.” Geralt pointed out.

“Typically, no. But I’m willing to make exceptions. If you’re wondering where your garments are, I moved them. It’s unwise to keep them so close to the water.” Emhyr interjected.

“I wasn’t wondering that.” Geralt retorted flatly.

“If you insist.” A hint of amusement creeping into his tone. 

“Go ahead, I’m all ears.” Geralt shrugged. 

“I care for Ciri more than anything else in this world.” Emhyr stated bluntly.

Geralt cocked his head. “That’s one thing we can agree on. What of it?” 

“And though you may not believe me, I wish for her to be happy above all else—even if it means choosing another to succeed me. However, I truly do believe it is in her best interest to accept her position as my rightful heir.” Emhyr explained.

“That’s enough.” Geralt met Emhyr’s gaze with fiery, gleaming defiance. “I’m not going to help you trick Ciri into doing something she doesn’t want.”

“Of course not. I said I would not force anything upon Ciri and I’ve been good to my word. No matter how foolish, I would do everything in my power to grant her the life she wants. The more important question is, what if she does choose the throne?”

“What are you getting at? That’s not what she wants.” Geralt’s throat suddenly felt dry and the air in his lungs stale.

“I am ready to accept whatever decision Cir makes. Are you, witcher?”

Geralt’s gaze faltered at the question and he broke eye contact. “Of course, I am.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Perhaps you’ll hear the rest of my proposal, then?” Emhyr gestured broadly with his hand.

Geralt narrowed his eyes. “Do I really have a choice?” 

“Not if you wish you keep her safe.”

“Fine. Let’s hear it then.”

The emperor took on a grave tone. “It is in Cirilla’s best interest to be formally recognized as the crown princess of Nilfgaard as soon as possible. News of her identity and whereabouts will spread like a wildfire. I fear for her safety, not from wyverns or ghouls, but from scheming fiends far more vicious and cunning than any beast.”

Geralt almost growled in reply, “Ciri is a capable fighter, more than you’ll ever know. She can handle her own. And I’d sooner die than let anyone harm her.”

Emhyr gave him a scolding look. “Witcher, I face an assassination attempt every other month. Fortunately, I am emperor and have the protection of my guards and armies. But what of Ciri? If she does not succeed me, then she will be a threat to whoever takes the throne. You cannot hope to protect her forever and they will hunt for her endlessly—and she will face these perils alone. I know my daughter is remarkably gifted, but as a witcher, she has no title, no guards, and no house to which she belongs. Do you really want Ciri to live out her life being stalked like some animal?”

Every word struck like a silver crossbow bolt. Geralt tried, but couldn’t come up with a retort. He just glowered, features twisted into a scowl, unconsciously baring his teeth.

Emhyr’s stony expression softened into something between compassion and pity. “Someday, you and I will both be dead. We can die wondering about Cirilla’s fate. Or, we can die knowing she is safe, with the force of the empire behind her.”

Geralt continued to glare, still unable to form words. Unwilling to admit Emhyr was right, he remained quiet and tried to come up with a reply, any reply. Emhyr, however, did not press him for one. The emperor seemed perfectly content to sit in silence while the witcher licked his wounds. One had to be patient when handling a cornered animal—especially one as valuable and ferocious as the white wolf. Any sudden movements and he would bite or slip away.

Geralt finally relented, sighing heavily. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Support her choice, no matter what it is. Allow our daughter to decide her own path.”

“I was going to anyway.” Geralt shot back.

“I’m glad we have an understanding.” Emhyr nodded and stretched out leisurely, so that his foot bumped against Geralt’s. The emperor did not apologize for the contact nor the fact he was generally invading Geralt’s space.

It was only then that Geralt realized how small he had made himself over the course of the exchange. His knees were pulled close to his chest and he had his back was pressed flush against the edge of the bath. “You’re taking up all the room.” He complained.

“It is my bathhouse. And there is more than one bath.” Emhyr gestured over to the adjacent pools.

“I was here first.” Geralt growled.

“Which is why I won’t demand you leave.” Emhyr rested his elbows on the edge of the bath.

The witcher glared and moved to reclaim his side of the stone basin. He extended his legs until they crossed with Emhyr’s, intending to displace the man through sheer inconvenience.

But var Emreis did not appear in the least inconvenienced. He raised a brow to the challenge, but otherwise remained exactly as he was.

“Got a problem?” Geralt spat.

“None whatsoever.” Emhyr smirked ever so slightly. At least, Geralt thought he did. He couldn’t be sure what that expression was exactly.

Emhyr’s behavior was bewildering yet intriguing. Never before had the emperor displayed this facet of his character. Hell, Geralt had been fairly certain that Emhyr only had one setting: ruthless and calculating. Regardless, the witcher endeavored to win the territorial dispute. He had managed to recover his half of the pool when it suddenly occurred to him that he was playing footsie with the emperor of fucking Nilfgaard in a bath house. Being tangled up beneath the warm water was having an unexpected effect on his body. Their current positions resulted in the emperor’s knee being wedged tightly against Geralt’s thigh in a rather dangerous manner. Suddenly very alarmed, Geralt cursed himself immediately and clambered out of the pool, keeping his back turned to Emhyr.

Geralt snarled from over his shoulder. “Where the hell are my clothes?” 

Emhyr made a wide, slow motion with his hand to the corner of the room. Then he closed his eyes and stretched out lazily as Geralt scrambled off.

Geralt fled the baths, face flushed with confused embarrassment. He barely toweled himself off before throwing his clothes on. His hair clung to his neck and shoulders, dripping as he made for his chamber. Various explanations and theories brewed in his mind as to what the hell just happened. Was Emhyr just trying to catch him off guard? There were countless better, less awkward, ways of having that same conversation.

Before he could finish mulling over his thoughts and turn them into something rational, Geralt ran into Ciri on the stairs to the west wing. She jumped as Geralt came swiftly barreling up, taking two steps at a time.

“Geralt!” She gasped. “I was wondering where you’d gone off to. I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Was just taking a bath.”

“You don’t say.” Ciri chided as she lightly tugged on a dripping lock of hair. “Wait, weren’t you at the baths just this afternoon?”

“Maybe.” Geralt shrugged with an abashed grin. “Gotta enjoy the perks while we’re stuck here.” Geralt stretched his arms above his head and crossed them behind his head.

Ciri chuckled. “Well, I’m glad that you aren’t completely miserable.” 

“Yeah, I think I could really get used to this place.”

Ciri raised a brow. “Really, now?” 

“Hell no.” Geralt grumbled.

Ciri rolled her eyes. “I figured as much. Well, I’m going to get some sleep. The caravan leaves first thing in the morning. Goodnight.”

Upon his final night at the royal castle, Geralt had to admit that he wasn’t exactly as eager to leave as he had let on. It had certainly been a pleasant enough vacation. Other than Mererid occasionally scolding him over some obscure bit of etiquette, the stay had been relaxing and undisturbed. The food was satisfying and the hot baths soothed his overworked muscles. Geralt didn’t even realize how tense he’d been until after his first soak, the heat and steam lifting months of strain from his shoulders.

The next morning, Ciri and Geralt met up at the outer wall to receive their orders. One of Emhyr’s stewards explained the terms of the contract, estimating that if construction progressed on schedule, it should last no more than three weeks. However, the sheer size of the caravan raised doubts as to the modest estimate. The caravan was massive. It consisted of forty imperial wagons, each being drawn by four horses. They carried ashlar, foundation beams, wooden boards, and a dozen other building materials. But many of the carts seemed to contain nothing more than sacks of soil and gravel.

After peeking into most of the wagons, Ciri eventually mused aloud, “Wait…is this all dirt?”

Geralt ran a gloved finger over one of the sacks. It certainly smelled of soil, just damp and earthy, nothing special. “Looks like it.” 

“What in the world is my father planning?” Ciri asked, her hands propped on her hips.

“Why don’t you ask him yourself.” Geralt nodded his head past Ciri and she spun around.

Emhyr stood a few yards away, speaking with the steward. Behind him, was a man with a large falcon perched upon his hand. The creature had a small leather hood upon its head that covered the eyes. The emperor noticed Ciri looking his way and beckoned her over.

“Your majesty.” Ciri began with a bow. Her eyes darted momentarily to the bird then back to her father.

“I presume my steward has explained your duties.” Emhyr stated in his more usual formal manner.

“Yes, though I was wondering about a few things...” Ciri replied.

Emhyr gestured for her to continue.

“What kind of improvements are we talking about exactly? By the looks of it, seems more like you’re trying to bury Velen than rebuild it.” Ciri laughed. She posed her question in such a forward manner that the steward raised his brows in warning.

Emhyr however did not appear in the least offended. “From what my engineers and mages report, the very soil has been corrupted. Thus, we shall have to replace it.” He could tell from the skeptical look on Ciri’s face that she wasn’t quite convinced. “You’ll see when you arrive.” He added, with a nod.

“Yes, I’m sure. Haven’t been in Velen in some time.” Ciri said in agreement. She looked a bit distracted as she regarded the falcon with another curious glance. This prompted a subtle smile from Emhyr who waved the bird handler over. 

“I have a gift for you.”

Ciri’s eyes sparked with excitement as the man removed the small hood from the creature’s head. It had sleek, black plumage with splashes of golden orange around its face and breast. With a small flap of its wings, the falcon smoothly hopped from the trainer’s gloved hand to hers. Ciri gasped, marveling at the raptor. “It’s gorgeous. Thank you, your majesty!”

“I had him brought up from southern Nilfgaard. It is the swiftest bird alive. I figured it would suit you, given all the stories I’ve heard.” Ciri was beaming so brightly that Emhyr could not help but smile as well.

“Is there anything I have to do? Feed him?” Ciri asked, lightly running a finger over the falcon’s tail feathers. She nearly jumped when it suddenly took off from her hand and disappeared into the nearby brush.

Emhyr chuckled, “You need not treat it like a pet nor ornament. It is a hunter by nature. Allow the creature a few hours of freedom and it will take care of itself.” As though to demonstrate, the falcon flew from the shrubbery with a small rodent in its beak. The bird landed on a wagon behind Geralt and began to eviscerate its meal.

“Oh, I see. Should have figured as much. Thank you again. I suppose we should be off now. And, I also wanted to thank you for allowing for letting us to stay, your majesty…” Ciri trailed off.

“But of course.” Emhyr replied warmly.

“Right then…farewell it is.” Ciri hesitated, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. At first, she turned to leave. But halfway through, Ciri pivoted around and threw her arms around Emhyr before any of the guards could stop her. They instinctively made a move for Ciri but stopped short, unsure of what to do. 

All of the emperor’s men stared on in with surprise. Even Emhyr looked stunned at first, but surprise melted into tenderness as he returned his daughter’s embrace. “Take care. And remember, you are always welcome should you decide to visit.” Emhyr straightened up as Ciri made her way back to Geralt and their horses.

Emhyr glanced sideways in Geralt’s direction. “You as well, witcher.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone! I apologize for the long delay. I started work recently and have been busy at work with the recent net neutrality issues that are about to be addressed by the FCC. (I'm a telecom/IP lawyer).
> 
> If you don't know what's going on, this link explains some seriously important shit that's going down right now:  
> https://www.publicknowledge.org/issues/net-neutrality
> 
> I'll try to post up more chapters soon.

Every so often, Ciri and Geralt would trade places riding at the front and back of the caravan in the event of an ambush. Luckily, none occurred. The journey went quick and easy, much to Geralt’s surprise. He noted that the soldiers accompanying them were armed with silver tipped spears. Emhyr had clearly learned a thing or two about the north during the course of the invasion. The road itself was also in unusually good condition. Geralt didn’t remember cobblestone extending out this far into Velen. It seemed that the smaller thoroughfares had been widened into paved highways. The caravan seemed to almost glide over the paved road at a steady and brisk pace before eventually entering the thick of the marshlands. 

Once they arrived, Ciri made sense of the cargo they were escorting. The landscape was barely recognizable. Emhyr had literally meant that they were replacing the earth. Everything looked less like swamp and more like an earthen quilt patched together from bog, gravel, and farmland all at once. In spite of the initially disparate appearance, it became obvious that there was indeed an organized network of roads and agricultural plots that were slowly coming together. The workers had started to drain sections of swamp and fill the pits, creating flat expanses of usable land. New structures reshaped the horizon. South eastern Velen was starting to look more like a town instead of a wasteland dotted with clustered shacks. Old thatched huts had been replaced with jetted cottages made of inexpensive but sturdy materials. Some of the unfinished buildings revealed stone foundations and timber framing. There was even a makeshift tavern already established.

An air of hope had managed to squeeze past the gnarled trees and eerie mists of “No Man’s Land.” Construction spanned as far as the eye could see. The villagers who lived there had all congregated around the construction zone and taken up work under Nilfgaardian contracts. In exchange, they were rewarded with safety and a stake in the new properties being erected. Although they were as superstitious and odd as always, the peasants seemed at least a tad friendlier than the last time Geralt rode through Velen.

In addition to the old residents, many new non-human neighbors had settled in. Ciri couldn’t quite make sense of it at first, but the realization hit her after speaking to a few half-elves: Velen had become a makeshift sanctuary. After chatting with an herbalist who had fled Oxenfurt, Ciri learned that an undercover Nilfgaardian force currently operated from Gray Rock to assist any magic folk who were fleeing the pyres in Novigrad and Oxenfurt.

The day was waning as the caravan settled and began unloading its supplies. Ciri and Geralt were provided with a spot with the Nilfgaardian camp during their stay. The large canvas tent was furnished more comfortably than most inns they would come by. It was certainly better than any accommodations one would expect to find in Velen. It was spacious and clean and there was even a little perch for Ciri’s new pet. The floor of the tent was lined with a heavy tarp, making the entire thing water and weatherproof. The two wooden beds were raised off the ground, making it easier to keep warm. There was also real bedding, soft fabric sheets and a comfortably thick mattress. They wouldn’t even need their bed rolls. The only complaint Geralt could really make was the black sun which clearly demarcated the tent. Camping out with Emhyr’s soldiers under the Nilfgaardian flag just didn’t exactly scream “neutrality.” But, technically they were hired to kill monsters, so he figured they hadn’t gone too far off the path.

“Now this I could get used to.” Geralt whistled as he flopped down on a bed.

“This is really impressive…all of it. I didn’t realize just how much of a change my father was making—” Ciri replied, setting her swords down.

“On second thought, let’s not get too used to it. The path isn’t normally this lavish.” Geralt muttered, fluffing his pillow before dropping his head into it with a satisfied sigh.

“I know that. Don’t forget, I walked the path with you for a while before everything happened.” Ciri immediately shot back. “Anyhow, I’m talking about more than just the perks. This is amazing. I look around, and I barely recognize the place anymore. This development is really helping to put things back together. Perhaps Velen can be restored. I’ve heard it used to be an alright place.”

“Yeah, before the Nilfgaardians dragged a war through it.” Geralt stated rather pointedly.

“I suppose that’s true…” Ciri considered the situation for a moment. Her brows furrowed a bit as she tried to remember the details that mattered. “So…I haven’t exactly had much time to think about politics, but I’d take Velen over Novigrad or Oxenfurt right now. Sure, it’s lacking its former glory, but at least I don’t have to worry about being burned at the stake. Radovid controls the entire north and he’s hellbent on hunting down anyone with even a hint of magic in their blood.”

“Tch, as though Emhyr didn’t have a helping hand in Radovid’s conquest? Temeria had Foltest and the rest of the northern kings were holding their own until your old man had them all stabbed to death.

Ciri sat down on her bed and rested her chin in her hands. “Right. My father did mention that bit as well.”

“What? He did?”

“Yes, back when we were in Vizima.” Ciri replied.

“And what did he say to justify all that?” Geralt inquired with a rather lofty air.

“He didn’t, actually. I had asked him about it while we looked at the battle maps. He said something about how the ‘price of progress can never be paid with gold alone.’ Not sure what he meant, really.”

“Yeah, that figures.” Geralt shrugged.

“We didn’t get a chance to finish talking about it.” Ciri explained, looking both concerned and pensive. She tapped her fingers along her cheeks as she contemplated the topic. After stewing on it for a while, she suddenly looked up. “King Vizimir died long before the war, right?”

“Yeah, that was a while back.” Geralt replied.

“Okay, that leaves Radovid, who is the rightful heir to Redania, and Henselt of Kaedwen. It was only a matter of time before Radovid ended up on the throne, which means that Novigrad and Oxenfurt would end up in the same mess as now.”

“I guess that’s true.”

Ciri paused again to think, “Seeing as how Radovid’s already taken over Kaedwen, it doesn’t seem like anyone else in the north would be able to hold him off. Besides, it’s not like the rest of the northern kings were exactly friendly towards non humans either.”

“That just leaves Temeria—which was doing just fine.” Geralt noted.

“You’re right. We don’t know exactly what would have happened to Temeria, but they allied with the rest of the northern kingdoms. Either leave Temeria in tact and lose the north, or occupy it until the war is over. I figure that’s why my father did what he did. Perhaps that’s what he meant by the price of progress.”

“You sure about that?” Geralt asked, not sounding especially interested.

“No, but I think it’s as good a guess as any.” Ciri said with a laugh. “I think I’ll run it by him next time. It’s about time he explained all this.”

“Good luck with that. Who knows what goes on in that head of his.”

The next morning, Geralt and Ciri were informed of their respective assignments. a Nilfgaardian Captain by the name of Laudron Aep Vynchadaerel tasked Geralt with investigating the disappearance of some Nilfgaardian soldiers. The man was short but broad, with thick tawny hair that poked out from under his helmet. He reminded Geralt a bit of Zoltan. Though, Vynchadaerel had a much more discerning and skittish demeanor. 

Although the construction teams had made astonishing progress at reshaping the swamp, they were now impeded by what appeared to be an impenetrable wall of fog. Vynchadaerel described it as rising up suddenly from nowhere, as though conjured by some inexplicable force of climate. Before the Captain had even finished explaining, Geralt deduced that it had to be the work of foglets, probably a whole swarm of them. Given the description, it was most likely that the damned things were making a last stand against the encroaching settlers. A few scouts had attempted to investigate dim lights that sometimes bobbed amidst the haze. But the never returned. Nor did the second party that went to look for the first. They had been silently consumed by the thick, milky air. Since then, no one had dared venture anyway near the area.

“Wait a minute—whose bright idea was it to send more people in?” Geralt asked with heaving skepticism.

Captain Vynchadaerel stiffened at the question. He adjusted his sleeves and replied in a churlish tone, “Scouting is a necessary part of reconnaissance strategy. We took all standard protocol in arming and preparing for the mission. I do not expect you to understand the technicalities of surveying the land.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’re a real expert. Real wonder how Nilfgaard’s winning the war if sending men in blind is standard practice.” Geralt retorted with crossed arms.

“It is hardly reasonable to expect men to be killed by fog. Witcher, I should remind you that it is not your job nor business to to question my command or the actions taken by my men. You are hired to dispose of vermin—nothing more.”

“I’m hired to make sure you don’t get any more people killed.” Geralt flexed his hand and tried to swallow the overwhelming urge to punch the man square in the jaw. Luckily, before Vynchadaerel could continue, Ciri bounded over and playfully rested her arm on Geralt’s shoulder.

“You all ready to go?” She asked nonchalantly, giving no indication as to how much of the conversation she had heard. Vynchadaerel shifted uneasily at Ciri’s approach and quickly clasped his hands behind his back as though standing at attention.

“Yeah, just about to head out.” Geralt said after slowly unclenching his fist.

“Sounds good. I’m sure I’ll be done clearing out the drowner nests by lunch.” Ciri stated with confidence. She then turned to Vynchadaeral and smiled, “You can count on us.”

“Indeed. I leave you both to your tasks. I expect a report by the afternoon.” Vynchadaerel buried his sneer under veneer of courtesy and withdrew himself as quickly as possible.

Once the captain had left, Ciri cheerily pestered Geralt about what he had been assigned to do. She complained that she would have much preferred to investigate the mysterious fog than be on drowner duty. Geralt assured her that assistance would be welcomed—as long as she finished her assignment first. Ciri crossed her arms and rolled her eyes, as though Geralt had told her she had to finish reading a giant tome on the difference between ghouls and alghouls.

Geralt grumpily set about figuring out how to clear what must have been a horde of foglets. Although he had hacked his way through a fair share of them in the past, entering the fog at this point would be suicidal. Armor and blades wouldn’t save you when your enemy could transform into mist. Even with a witcher’s superior senses, it was a bad idea to fight the ethereal beings on their turf.

A group of nervous looking Nilfgaardian soldiers stood about ten meters from the border of the fog. They must have been the unfortunate bunch assigned to assist him. The men appeared relieved as Geralt approached. A few even stood and waved.

“Oi! You must be Geralt of Rivia—aep vatt’ghern. Thank the gods you’re here!” Exclaimed a young man with a sense of awe.

“Yeah, that’s me. But don’t thank me just yet…” Geralt replied wearily. He figured things must be pretty bad. The only time a witcher ever got such a warm welcome was when shit had seriously gone to hell. Usually, not even then, but it was the only reason that could explain the kind regards.

“Master witcher, I am Second Lieutenant Bronfylle. Tis’ a pleasure to meet you. Please take great caution. The fog, it’s cursed! It eats men alive!” The young man frantically began to explain.”

“Yeah, I know. Probably got a whole army of foglets camped out down there.” Geralt explained.

“Froglets? You mean tadpoles…?” The lieutenant asked with a completely bewildered look.

Geralt sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “Foglets. They’re a type of monster that creates fog. They look mostly humanoid, a bit like large imps. If you see any lights out there it’s because they can create illusions… ” Geralt trailed off. He noticed the young man staring back, obviously trying his best to not look skeptical. Geralt shook his head, “You know what, never mind. Just let me take care of it.” Turning to the rest of the group, he called out, “Alright, no one goes near the fog. Doesn’t matter what that idiot Vynka—whatever-his-name-is told you, just stay away.”

Not a single man made any objections. They all just stared back with confused, spooked expressions.

Geralt paced over to the edge of the fog fortress as the soldiers looked on with a combination of curiosity and doubt. He loaded a silver bolt into his crossbow and cast Aard directly into the haze. The force of the spell cut through the curdled air, briefly clearing a path. Several fuzzy silhouettes became visible. He immediately fired his crossbow. Something uttered a gravelly screech as the bolt tore into it. For just an instant, a ragged, bleeding troll-like creature stumbled into view before the clearing receded back into the sea of fog.

Upon witnessing this, the soldiers anxiously grasped their weapons. Geralt felt a bit smug as the men slowly inched back from the edge of the fog. At least now they believed him. He repeated the spell with vigor, managing to nail another foglet before the mist filled back in. The creature hissed and vanished into nothing. Low growls of warning rose from the miasma.

Enlisting the help of some of the men, Geralt settled on this strategy for the time being. It would take a while, but it was the safest way he could think to pick them off. The soldiers knocked their arrows and waited. The witcher blasted Aard in a random direction and then the archers let loose a volley of silver-tipped arrows at anything that moved in the distance. The strategy worked at first. Each wave of ammunition elicited pained screeching. But, soon the foglets caught on and retreated out of aard’s reach. Geralt cursed under his breath as the last few spells revealed nothing. It didn’t exactly surprise him that the safe approach wasn’t going to work. No, that would be way too easy.

Geralt sighed and embarked on a much straightforward method. He continued to cast Aard to clear sections the misty void so he could get an idea of the terrain. The area was marshy and riddled with gnarled, dying trees, which meant that it was going to be difficult to maneuver. Though, he found respite in the fact that the trees would make it more difficult for foglets to surround him. After committing the terrain to memory as best he could, Geralt removed his silver sword and prepared a moon dust bomb. He took a deep breath and cast Aard once more. This time, before the wall of fog could close back up, the witcher sprinted into the clearing and chucked the moon dust. It exploded a small distance away, and Geralt launched another gust toward the sound. Faint, humanoid forms came into view. They were barely visible, marked only by the speckled shimmer of the bomb. Geralt lunged in with his sword and deftly cut down as many as he could before the fog flooded around him, obscuring his view.

Geralt immediately sprinted back in the direction he came from as a cacophony of gurgling wails closed in on him. Before he make it clear of the fog, a loud hiss sounded from behind. Instinctively, the witcher spun around and sliced a foglet across the face. He then pivoted around and barely blocked another set of claws with the edge of his blade. More of the monsters swarmed him. Geralt’s lightning reflexes kept the onslaught mostly at bay, but a few managed to make it past his defenses. Luckily, his armor took the bulk of the assault. He managed to escape with only a few minor cuts along his arms. Well, minor by his standards anyway.

The men all cheered loudly as he tumbled out of the fog. “Did you see that? He jumped in there like a madman!” One shouted. “By god, how many of em you think he got? I counted at least three!” Another replied. 

Geralt stumbled over to a large flat rock and slumped down. He needed a moment to catch his breath. The soldiers flocked around him in celebration. A few offered to see to his injuries. Geralt accepted the bandages but didn’t quite know how to receive the praise. He wasn’t exactly used to the fanfare. The small band of Nilfgaardian soldiers had shown him more thanks in a day than he normally saw in a month from his usual clients. Northern peasants were a wary, surly bunch. They spat and called him a mutant freak, even though he was the one saving their asses from a wraith.


End file.
